


Now is the winter of our contentment

by SearchingforSerendipity



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Established Relationship, Fix-It, Fluff with smatterings of angst, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, old married spirk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 17:57:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18596482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SearchingforSerendipity/pseuds/SearchingforSerendipity
Summary: At his age, it would be quite dire if Jim were not self-aware enough to admit he has a tendency for being nostalgic





	Now is the winter of our contentment

 

 

i 

 

“Hi, Spock. I know you’re in class right now, but I just - - listen, the inauguration is off. I’m fine, but it seems the Enterprise-B is staying in the shipyard for a good while. There was a problem with the engine, a last-minute flaw. I guess they rescheduled it. I’ll tell you more later, okay? I’m taking the next transport back. It should be late, so don’t wait up.”

 

 

ii

 

At his age, it would be quite dire if Jim were not self-aware enough to admit he has a tendency for being nostalgic.

All in all, as Jim sees it - and has pointed out to Spock more than once - it is not a necessarily negative emotion. Rather, a healthy longing for the past is proof of life worth remembering fondly. And these days the remembrance of the only rarely brought about a truly maudlin mood. He is too quick to laugh at himself, and to return to the present, and all its joys and comforts, his duties to his students and his husband. 

Still, when they tell him about the launch of the Enterprise-B, his heart leaps. It is part of his history - his best and dearest home for many years, and he does not think he will ever stop longing for it, a little bit, for her crew and mission and familiar corridors.

A good portion of the crew are students of his, including the young, promising Captain, and most of the senior officers. They request for his presence specifically, and Jim, feeling flattered and rather like a doting relative of some sort, agrees. 

It is not home, of course. It’s a brilliant testament to aerospatial engeneering, but it isn’t _his_ brilliant testament to aerospatial engeneering.

And home, also, is something different. They have an apartment overlooking the San Francisco Bay, Spock and him. Not far from Starfleet Academy, with plenty of framed holos from friends and places they’d been to, the cactus pots Amanda had given them, shelves overflowing with ancient Terran paperbacks and datachips of astrophysics journals alike. Their chess set, their sofa, their knickknacks and incense holders and candles. The admittedly ugly blanket Jim had knitted for Spock, and the much better one Amanda gave them when they moved to the flat and signed the lease under S'chn T'gai-Kirk.

It has taken them years to get used to planetside schedules, sunrises and sunsets, days measured by the turning of Earth around Sol. In the mornings when sleep recedes early they sit by the low table under the window, curled up in their blankets, and watch the winter fog rise from the water as the sky changes, from the blackness of night to grey light, to the color of dawn brought to life afresh.

That, too, is theirs now.

 

 

iii

 

The lost time - the words unsaid - before they made their hearts clear to each other, and afterwards too. The fear. They are older now, and wise enough to know not to measure life so starkly. Jim knows how to live with regret, with counting losses and treasuring them for what they were. 

And what they are going to be, one day.

 Spock is going to outlive him. Jim is going to die, and it is going to break Spock’s heart, wound his mind. There is nothing Jim can do about that, except try to stay alive as long as possible, and accept that however long that is, it cannot possibly be long enough.

“It is not a matter of ascribing blame,” Spock says, sounding somewhat offended. He never did like when people second-guessed his decisions. As if he would ever choose any course of action - choose Jim - without considering all the factors, every reason and cause and consequence, emotional and rational; every corner and shadow of his self. Self-affirmation through responsibility. Jim loves him so.

“Yeah, I know. But you get why I have to, right?”

And Spock nods, and accepts his illogical apology, though they both know well enough it is not his fault. Or if it is, he is guilty of making Spock love him, and that he cannot do nothing about now. It is indelible; it is written in the fabric of their souls, however long they live. 

He cannot make himself feel sorry for it, and he wouldn’t if he could. It is not a matter of whether it was worth it.

But oh, it was. It still is.

  

 

iv

 

They agree to get married as a matter of convenience.

“Yes,” Jim says. “You’ve found me out, Spock. All these years, and I’m really only with you for pure self-interest. Just for your position and money, you understand. Someone needs me to keep supplying me with expensive books, and I’m sorry to say you’ve drawn the short straw.” 

Spock tilts his head serenely. “That is acceptable, since I intend to wed you solely for the sake of strengthening diplomatic harmony between our planets.” 

Jim nods, very serious; the laugh-lines around his eyes deepen. “Very logical. And being such an official affair, I suppose we will have to invite the whole bunch of Admirals.”

“The holonews will most certainly wish to be present,” Spock adds.

Jim sighs. “Everything in the line of duty, I suppose. And for a pretty Shakespeare hardback.”

Spock kisses him then, presses his fingers against in a point of shared contact thrumming with amusement, affection. Jim chuckles and presses a messy human kiss against his cheek, his hair tickling the shell of Spock’s ear. He can feel the sensation faintly from the other end of the bond, Spock’s silent joy-comfort-amusement singing back at him, a bright tie between them, as good and better than any grand handfasting.

  

 

v 

 

When Jim opens the front door, cleaning the slush off his boots on the mat, Spock looks up from his padd and says, “Welcome, Jim.”He is waiting, of course, perfectly still in his usual way. The cold seaside wind slips in from the open window and rustles the fine strands of hair at back of his neck. In the half-darkness his profile catches and reflects the city lights, his eyes brighter than the faint brightness of the distant moon. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” Jim says. He puts down his luggage and steps forward. “It’s good to be home.”

 

 


End file.
